


Hunter & Hunted

by chellerrific



Series: Girls’ Night Out [1]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: DIY Superheroes, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellerrific/pseuds/chellerrific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Gordon has a problem. His daughter has a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prioritized

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks in the universe to Philippa and Amanda, my own personal Babs and Bette, for encouraging me, holding my hand on the astral plane, reading the chapters as I wrote them, and reminding me that there would at the very least be two people in the world with an interest in this fic. This Bud’s for you, ladies.

**GOTHAM CITY, CONNECTICUT  
OCTOBER 4, 01:36 EDT**

The numbers on the clock were all but seared onto Barbara Gordon’s retinas. She had been watching them steadily for the last three hours, barely blinking each time they changed. This wasn’t the first time her father had been home later than he said he would be, and it wasn’t the first time she’d found herself unable to sleep as a result. It came with the territory of being the daughter of the police commissioner, especially in a place like Gotham City. It could be nothing, but it could be something, and the only thing she could do to find out which was to wait.

The front door opened with barely a sound. A light came on—the kitchen. Barbara had put his dinner in the fridge when he didn’t show up to eat it, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it went untouched. He would have a glass of wine and go to bed.

“Dad?”

James Gordon turned, the dark half-moons under his eyes vivid against his wan complexion. Barbara never startled him, no matter how soundlessly she moved or how tired he was. He always seemed to know she was there. He claimed it was his father-sense. “I always tell you not to wait up.”

“And I always wait up anyway,” Barbara pointed out.

Her father removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We had to let Arthur Brown go.”

“What?” Barbara gripped the door frame. “But that was a slam-dunk!”

“As it turned out, the evidence was collected one hour _before_ the warrant was issued,” he explained. “We’re still investigating whether it was a glitch, human error, or… something else, but for now, everything we’ve got has been thrown out.”

His shoulders sagged like the weight of the world had settled on them. Barbara knew that after some sleep, her father would be ready to tackle the case again from a new angle, but setbacks like this always hit him hard. He saw them as personal failures to the people of Gotham.

“Does Batman know?”

Jim settled his glasses back on his face and focused his gaze on his daughter. “No. Arthur Brown is small-time. Batman and the Justice League have bigger problems to deal with.”

“I thought the only ‘problem’ they had to deal with was helping people.” Barbara could feel her features puckering up into her signature frown, what her father called her secret weapon.

“Babs,” Jim said tiredly. “Batman is only human. He can’t solve all the world’s problems. It’s my job to deal with things like this. I’m going to bed now, and you should do the same.” He walked past her out of the kitchen, pausing to give the top of her head a kiss and her shoulder a squeeze before heading upstairs.

“You’re only human, too,” she whispered to no one.

* * *

**15:23 EDT**

The next afternoon, Barbara skipped judo practice and instead headed to the police station after school. She had spent the entire day contemplating her next move and had decided she wouldn’t have time for both judo and homework, and the latter was slightly more important.

As she was the redheaded only child of the police commissioner, she entertained no illusions that she could get around the station unnoticed or unrecognized. So she went straight in, chin up, still in her school uniform.

“Hi, Stacy,” Barbara greeted her father’s secretary, all smiles.

“Why hello there, Barbara. Good to see you. I’m afraid your father’s not in his office right now.”

Barbara made a show of sighing, a teenager thoroughly exasperated with her father’s inability to be where she meant him to be. “Somehow, I didn’t expect him to be. I just noticed he forgot his lunch and this is the first chance I’ve had to drop it off all day.” She held up a brown paper bag.

The phone rang, and Stacy held up a finger as she answered it. Barbara silently motioned to her father’s office, indicating the bag in her hand, and Stacy nodded.

Dick Grayson had promised he would keep Stacy busy on the phone as long as he could, but Barbara still had to be quick. Fortunately, she knew exactly what she was looking for.

The computer sat idling on the desk. The security on the system was heavy but not for the police commissioner, and since she had his badge number and password, Barbara was just that as far as the machine knew.

This wasn’t the first time Barbara had helped herself to a peek at her father’s files. She was always extremely careful about it—the information she gleaned never went any further than her own eyes, and she always left everything exactly as she found it so nothing ever got misplaced or ruined. The system would log any use of the printer, so she had brought along a thumb drive. Obviously it wasn’t like moving her term paper off her home computer, but she had the information she needed to get through the tangles of security and copy the entire Arthur Brown file over. Within minutes she had what she needed and the computer was back to its former state as if no one had ever touched it.

She put the thumb drive in her bra. She knew the importance of the information stored on it and was prepared to guard it with her life. She wasn’t even going to take the chances that came with leaving it in her bag for the trip home.

On the other side of the door, Dick still had Stacy on the phone. Barbara had no idea what he’d said, but Stacy was rifling through her desk drawers frantically, asking him to please be patient for another moment. Poor Stacy. Barbara made a mental note to send her some chocolates later.

She caught Stacy’s eye and gave her a small wave and an encouraging smile. The woman was so frazzled it was unlikely she’d remember how long Barbara had been in the office. As she left the station, Barbara sent a text message to Dick that she was done.

“Oh? Is… is that so?” she heard Stacy say behind her. “Well then. I’m… glad I could help. … Yes. All right. You too, sir.”

* * *

**16:01 EDT**

Back at home, Barbara did a quick series of stretches and judo exercises while she booted up her computer and checked the messages on the answering machine. She had been loath to skip practice that day, but it had been a necessity. Still, that didn’t mean she had to neglect it entirely.

As much as she wanted to get cracking on the case file, homework came first. She had a history paper to finish and a big math test to study for. She had just sat down to get started when her phone went off, letting her know she’d gotten a text message.

It was Dick. _So, are you going to let me know what that was all about?_

 _No_ , she sent back.

 _You’re welcome_ , came the reply, and she could almost feel the sulkiness in the words.

_Thanks. I mean it. That was really helpful. I just can’t talk about it right now. Maybe later._

_If you say so._

Dick and Barbara had been close for a while now. Not _that kind_ of close, but close. Their fathers were acquainted as well, which was unsurprising given their respective prominence in the city, and Bruce Wayne himself had commented that Barbara was a good influence on Dick. What he meant by that, she had no clue, since Dick was already a straight-A mathlete champion, but she had accepted the compliment for what it was worth. Besides, being on good terms with Bruce Wayne could only be a good thing in the long run.

After her paper was polished up to her standards, printed, and secured neatly in her folder, and she was confident she knew the math unit cold, she finally allowed herself to remove the thumb drive from her bra and plug it into the computer. The discomfort had probably slowed her down some while she worked, but the security of knowing it was safe was worth it.

She made sure all firewalls and encryption were turned on before getting started. The file was comprehensive and would take a while to get through. Arthur Brown was a career criminal and had a colorful past in Gotham and elsewhere. He was suspected in a bank robbery that had resulted in the death of a security guard. Even if he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, all the police had to do was connect him conclusively to the robbery to charge him with first degree murder. That would be a strong bargaining chip to force him to roll over on anyone he’d worked with.

But just as her father had said, the evidence, which was damning—money from the robbery, blueprints of the bank, surveillance photos, and more, all seized in Brown’s own apartment—had been thrown out on a technicality.

Something about this felt wrong to Barbara. Brown was no novice. He should have been smart enough to get rid of such dead giveaways and hide the money somewhere in preparation for laundering it. Then again, maybe she was overestimating his intelligence. His rap sheet was certainly long enough to prove that he wasn’t above getting caught.

Unfortunately, the file wouldn’t contain the results of the investigation on what caused the problem with the search warrant. If it wasn’t a simple filing error or electronic glitch—and she felt strongly her father suspected it was not—then that meant someone had deliberately manipulated facts to get Brown off the hook. Though the investigation had only just gotten started and Barbara had no guess as to how long or deep it would go, she knew that the findings, whatever they were, would be important.

Barbara rested her chin in her hand, staring idly at the mugshot of Brown. He was fair-haired and muscular, with severe eyebrows and a deep scowl. It was pretty much the most cliché mugshot Barbara had ever seen.

Barbara believed in the system. She believed in due process and the rights of the accused and innocent until proven guilty. She believed that most of the time, it worked. But she knew that sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes there were loopholes. Sometimes people cheated and manipulated and lied. Sometimes the bad guys got away, and it wasn’t right.

An idea had been forming in the back of her mind since her father had told her Arthur Brown had been released. She knew it had been there, percolating, but it was so ridiculous she hadn’t been ready to acknowledge it. By this time, however, it was starting to sound more plausible.

The police needed aid that could operate outside the system. And if Batman and the Justice League were too busy to do it, then someone else was going to have to.


	2. Identity

**OCTOBER 8, 19:47 EDT**

“I am wearing spandex,” Barbara said out loud for the sixth time in as many minutes. Despite the fact that she had picked out the clothes herself and was staring at her own reflection in her bedroom mirror, it still hadn’t really sunk in. She, Barbara Gordon, was wearing a black lycra spandex catsuit. She felt completely naked. She would rather be in her ridiculously short school uniform skirt than this.

But she had seen the outfits superheroes wore. If she was going to do this, she needed to do it right. She only had to close her eyes and think of all the times she’d seen that beaten look on her father’s face to know that she was willing to do whatever it took to help him, and if that meant wearing spandex, so be it.

The costume wasn’t finished, though, and as soon as she had processed the image before her, she slipped back out of the catsuit and put her regular jeans and T-shirt back on.

Barbara knew, objectively, that it was going to be one thing to decide to break into the superhero business and another thing to actually do it. She also knew that despite her status as a United States Judo Association-certified junior tenth degree purple belt, she was still a skinny thirteen-year-old girl who didn’t cut a very intimidating figure.

As far as Barbara figured, there were four ways to become a superhero: one, you were born one, like Superman; two, you became one through some kind of science experiment gone wrong (or right, she supposed), like the Flash; three, you knew one and worked as their sidekick, like Robin; or four, you just did it. One was right out. Two, Barbara supposed could happen, but she wasn’t going to count on it, and she was smart, but that didn’t mean she wanted to experiment on herself. Three would take too long and she didn’t happen to have any close personal connections to any superheroes—she had always got the sneaking suspicion her father knew more about Batman than he let on, but she couldn’t exactly go up to him and say, “Hey, Dad, I’ve decided I want to become a superhero; can you send up the bat signal and help a girl out?”

So that left four. It was all her. But Batman did it, and if he did it, so could she. Especially since he was going to help her out, albeit unknowingly.

Knockoff Batman costumes were a dime a dozen these days—though not literally, unfortunately. That didn’t mean the sigil didn’t carry any weight, though. Batman already had Robin. Who was to say he couldn’t take up another young protégé? As long as she was careful, which she intended to be, she wouldn’t have to answer any questions about it. She would just show up dressed like a new member of some kind of extended bat-family, do what needed to be done, and leave. If she got cornered, people finding out she had no real connection to Batman would be the least of her problems. As for the actual Batman, well, her father had said it himself: the man had bigger things to worry about; a scrawny teen in a cannibalized Halloween costume co-opting his name probably wouldn’t even register as a blip on his radar. Or sonar.

In her spare time over the last week, Barbara had researched sewing. She and her father shared the chores around the house, and he was the designated clothes-mender, so Barbara had never had any cause to learn before. It seemed simple enough, though: thread the needle and drag it through the cloth, more or less. She didn’t need to do any fancy embroidering, just get a piece of bat-shaped fabric sewn on her (ugh) catsuit. She also thought she would probably want to hem her cape, which she really didn’t want to use, but not only did it seem practically mandatory, she had come to the conclusion that any extra coverage she could get was a bonus.

The rest of the outfit was just a pair of sturdy combat boots, a belt, and the cowl from the same costume she got the sigil from. She wanted to get it right, but she also was aware that ultimately, what she wore was the least of her concerns. She needed equipment, she needed to be rock-solid on her judo, and she needed information.

As far as equipment went, obviously she was going to have to go bare-bones. No fancy grappling hook guns or wrist computers. She already had a smart phone and that was probably the sum total of any tech she’d have. She thought shuriken might be the way to go with weapons, but she wasn’t trained in using them, they weren’t cheap, and there was no guarantee she’d be able to get them back after she threw them, so it just wasn’t practical. She had settled for a pair of sturdy rattan sticks. Her sensei would be horribly chagrined to see her taking up a weapon, but if all went well, she wouldn’t even need them.

(All the same, she did check to see if there were any eskrima classes in the area, but she seemed to be out of luck. It looked like any weapon work she learned was going to have to be a self-taught crash course for now.)

When it came to judo, she was already the highest rank it was possible for a thirteen-year-old to be under the USJA standards. The only thing keeping her from a brown belt was time. She knew she was the best in her class. But she could still be better. The element of surprise would get her pretty far for a while, she knew, but she couldn’t surprise a six-foot man with her flawless _tsurikomi goshi_ if she was ultimately too weak to pull it off. That was why she’d picked up a pair of small hand weights to take with her on her morning run. She’d wanted to get a bigger size, but when she couldn’t even pick them up off the rack, she decided she would have to scale down for the time being. She also could branch out from judo. Apart from possible future study of eskrima, she had always been interested in aikido. There just hadn’t been time for it. Maybe she needed to make time.

And as for information, she knew as much about Arthur Brown as the police did. Beyond that, she supposed, she was going to have to play it by ear.

As much as she wanted to jump right in, she knew that she had to be prepared. Arthur Brown, or an associate of his, had already killed a security guard. There was no telling whether or not they’d hesitate to use lethal force on her. She needed to have the upper hand in every possible way. She turned the page of her wall calendar and put a star on November 12. That gave her just over a month to prep before she made her next move—not to mention time to figure out exactly what that would be.


	3. The Chase

**NOVEMBER 12, 07:00 EST**

It occurred to Barbara that if the old evidence the police had was thrown out, it obviously stood to reason that what they needed was new evidence. She donned her catsuit, complete with bat sigil (which took more tries to get sewn on right than she would ever admit to anyone), then dressed in normal clothes over it. Fortunately, as it was November in Connecticut, the layers were actually nice to have, and it was easy to hide the cape. For now she would go incognito, keeping Arthur Brown under surveillance, but she wanted to be ready to go into action if she needed to.

First things first: she took the small black square out of her bag and examined it. Dick had had to coach her in exactly how to activate it since she’d never used a tracking device before. He almost hadn’t been willing to help her out with it when she’d still refused to give him details, but he’d caved after she gave him The Frown. She got the sneaking suspicion that Dick would be able to track whatever she tracked with the device, though, so she’d taken it apart to see how it worked, then used a bit of jimmying to install a firewall. She was unsure about precisely how well it would keep Dick out, but she’d done what she could.

The file on Arthur Brown had listed his address as an apartment in Gotham Heights, which, despite its name, was definitely on the Wrong Side Of The Tracks. The file had also contained a description of his brown 1972 Chevy El Camino, which was even more beat up and hideous in person than she’d expected. The license plates were, not surprisingly, missing, but Barbara didn’t see any other car around like it, so she decided to take a chance and assume it was Brown’s.

She crouched down and reached into the wheel well, hiding the device in the shadows near the top. She spent more time on it than she’d intended, though, making absolutely certain it was completely secure. Better safe than sorry, she felt.

“What are you doing?”

Barbara hit her head on the side of the car hard, leaving matching dents in both. Standing over her shoulder was a man who could only be Arthur Brown. Well, at least she could be sure this was his car.

“Are you the little turd who’s been leaving nails in my tires?” he demanded, eyes blazing.

“No, sir,” Barbara said quickly, widening her eyes. “I was only looking for my cat, Mittens. She got loose and I thought I saw her run under here.”

Brown crouched down next to her and began to inspect his tire. Barbara held her breath, but Brown was only looking for childish tire sabotage, not a sophisticated, well-hidden tracking device in the wheel well, and once he was satisfied there was none of the former, he stood back up, shooting a glare down at Barbara. “Well? Your damn cat’s not here, so beat it.”

Without another word, Barbara turned and ran, hoping she looked like nothing more than a small child afraid of an intimidating grown-up. She whipped around a corner into the nearest alley, then stopped to peer carefully back at Brown.

He walked around the car, looking over each of the tires, then opened the door with an ear-shattering squeal. Barbara thought he was about to drive off already, but instead he only rooted around inside for a minute before emerging with something—a cell phone. He flipped it open and dialed, slammed the car door shut with another squeal, and then walked back up the stairs into his apartment building with the phone pressed against his ear.

Barbara sighed. She knew there was no way this would be that easy. She pulled up the hood of her coat and ran across the street from Brown’s apartment. She settled on the stoop of a building facing his before pulling out _All Quiet on the Western Front_ and starting to read, trying to look like she belonged there. If she kept her head down and her nose in the book, Brown most likely wouldn’t even notice her when he came back out.

The day wore on with no sign of Brown. Barbara had been prepared for a long, dull day; she knew that stake-outs tended to be just that. But morning turned to afternoon and afternoon faded into evening and still there was no sign of Brown. There was a strong chance he wouldn’t be going anywhere today, and even if he did, it wouldn’t necessarily be anywhere relevant. He could decide to run to Target for some Ben & Jerry’s for all she knew. Fortunately, the tracking device would record his movements, so even if she couldn’t be there, she’d know what Brown was up to.

Unless, of course, he got a ride with someone else. That could create a problem.

She’d finished her book and was starting to doze off where she sat when a shriek woke her up with a start. Her heart pounded for a microsecond before she realized it was just the sound of Brown’s car door. He was on the move, finally.

“Oil can,” Barbara muttered to herself with a shake of her head. She quickly buried her nose in her bag as if she were looking something, but as she suspected, Brown paid her no mind. He started up the engine of the El Camino and roared past, probably punching a new hole in the ozone layer all on his own.

Barbara switched on the tracker and then, as soon as the car was around the corner, started after on foot. She had calculated the viability of this plan and determined that taking into account traffic, stoplights, and the circuitous routes necessitated by the use of an automobile, as long as Brown didn’t go too far or leave his destination too quickly, it was within the realm of possibility for her to catch him wherever he was going. There were, of course, a number of variables that were outside the realm of her control, but she had confidence in her own learning curve; every failure was an educational experience.

She kept up a steady jog, using the GPS on the tracking device to cut through alleys and public thoroughfares. It wasn’t a difficult task, but she did decide it was time to seriously consider investing in some kind of motorized scooter. Being a superhero was getting expensive.

Barbara picked up her pace, her breath coming out in icy puffs as she ran. She felt claustrophobic winding through such an urban environment; up above on the rooftops, she would have a better view and be able to move more quickly. But was now really the time to find out if she had any natural skill at parkour? Not unless she wanted to explain to her father what she was doing in a back alley in Gotham Heights with a broken leg it wasn’t. She mentally added that to her list of things to research later.

For a moment, she allowed herself to wish she really was affiliated with Batman. Having backup, especially such experienced backup, would be nice. But if she could have Batman tail Brown, she wouldn’t need to be here in the first place. She shook the thought out of her head and increased her speed incrementally more.

According to the tracking device, Brown was headed steadily south. Was he really going to the harbor? This guy was seriously an evil laugh and a mustache away from being a walking stock villain.

Barbara found herself near downtown. There would be plenty of major streets ahead, which would require more stops. While she didn’t think the bus would get her there much faster than she would get on foot, she rationalized that at least it would afford her the chance to catch her breath, and whatever she was headed into, it was probably best not to head into it with her lungs about to burst.

She managed to catch the line to the harbor with ease. It was, not surprisingly, fairly empty at that time of night, so she had plenty of room to stretch out her muscles carefully while she slowed her breathing.

She pulled out the tracking device, holding it close so that none of the other passengers could get a good look at it. At a glance it probably resembled a phone or an mp3 player and she wanted to encourage that impression.

To her surprise, when she looked down, Brown was headed north again. With a sinking feeling, she realized she must have been mistaken about his destination. She’d have to get off at the next stop.

Before they reached that, though, Brown turned and headed east, then turned again and headed south once more. Barbara clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh that almost came out of it when she realized what he must be doing. Was Brown trying to shake a tail, real or imagined? If so, he was going about it all wrong. To begin with, he needed to get a different car. Never mind the distinctive appearance; the thing was so loud that even the greenest of rookies could probably follow it by sound alone.

So much the better for her, though. Brown’s ultimate destination still did seem to be south, and was still probably the harbor, but his ridiculous clown car driving would slow him down considerably, increasing the likelihood she could get there not long after he did.

This explained the glut of evidence in Brown’s apartment, then: despite his “experience,” he was no Professor Moriarty—he was no Professor Brainard, from the looks of it. It was almost like he _wanted_ to be caught. Obviously whoever else Brown was working with, they were the brains of the operation, and that knowledge pulled Barbara up short. Brown was a known factor. She was as prepared as she could be when it came to him. But anyone else was a complete unknown beyond that they were going to be even more formidable.

She took a deep breath and calmed herself. She always knew that Brown would almost certainly have associates. Their level of competency was always an unknown factor. All she had to do was stay cool-headed and careful. They didn’t know she was coming. They didn’t know what she was capable of. She still had the upper hand.

The bus stopped. She had reached the harbor. It was now or never.


	4. Crash Course

**NOVEMBER 12, 23:12 EST**

The signal stopped at an abandoned warehouse. Of course it did; where else would Brown be going?

Barbara found a deserted alleyway and quickly stripped off her outer layers and donned her belt and cowl. The ridiculous outfit that would have made her stick out almost anywhere else besides certain conventions and parties would be beneficial for lurking in the shadows. Or at least, she assumed that the abandoned warehouse would be shadowy; if it had track lighting, she was screwed.

She also realized that her costume really should have included gloves. Gloves! How could she have forgotten something as simple as that? Fortunately, she’d worn a pair of regular gloves with her civvies, so she had those to leave on until she could get a proper pair of superhero gloves.

She hid her bag with her clothes in it under a pile of rubbish. Even if she was forced to leave it behind or someone were to otherwise discover it, she’d made sure there was nothing important or traceable in it. Anything of that nature was on her person or left at home.

Slipping through the buildings was easy enough; there were few people around this area, and she blended in with the night well. Her cape snagged on loose nails more than once, but she decided after the third time that a slightly tattered look might add to the authenticity of her appearance.

The warehouse at which Brown’s car had stopped was particularly decrepit. He’d left it parked right out front, and at first she thought perhaps he’d gone into a different building. But then she remembered who she was dealing with, and decided this was probably the place.

She slipped the tracking device out from the wheel well as she hurried past the car. She’d considered her options at length on the bus ride over and had decided that even if this particular mission was a bust, it was best to collect the evidence while she had the chance. If she did end up having to give herself away, she wanted to keep her methods a secret. If this was less suspicious than it looked, she could always reattach the device at a later time and try again.

She switched off the tracking device and examined the building. The huge metal door was closed, and obviously as an entry point, that was out. There was a row of small windows near the roof, at least half of which were cracked or broken. This looked like her best way in. She had neglected to pack a pair of vacuum gloves, though. This was going to require improvisation.

Around the back she found a rusty old ladder leading up to the roof. Whether or not it was capable of holding her weight without giving out looked up for grabs, and all she was sure it would do was take her up to the windows. Climbing in would be another thing, and having a place to climb _to_ on the inside was a complete unknown. But so far it looked like her best shot, and at least this way she’d be able to confirm conclusively Arthur Brown was inside and who, or what, else might be in there with him. Barbara was a firm believer that knowledge was power.

Paint, metal, and rust flaked off the ladder as she started to climb, and she was grateful for the gloves, all though she’d probably never be able to get them clean again. She moved soundlessly, mentally congratulating herself on her perfect choice of boot. She’d spent more time picking them out than any other single part of the costume.

At the top of the ladder, she found if she swung with enough momentum, she could reach the nearest broken window. Unfortunately it wasn’t cleanly broken, and remnants of it remained sticking up from the frame. The gloves weren’t nearly thick enough to keep her from the likelihood of cutting her hands on them, and once she reached the window, it was still up in the air whether or not she’d be able to do anything beyond hang there by her bloody fingertips.

Before making the jump off the ladder, she peered into the warehouse. There were three small lamps set up on the ground; they threw off just enough light for her to make out at least half a dozen shadowy figures congregating inside. They also highlighted the boxes stacked around the room, though whether they belonged to Brown and his gang or they were garbage left over from the warehouse’s last legal occupant, she couldn’t say. More importantly, the lights allowed her to see the scaffolding below her window, and she knew how she was going to get in.

She took a deep breath, steadied herself on the ladder, then swung once, twice, three times before letting go. She grabbed the ledge of the window, the broken glass biting painfully into her hands. She gritted her teeth and leveraged her weight against it even more, driving the shards farther into her flesh. The soles of her boots had just enough grip that she was able to get a measure of purchase along the side of the building, and she began to drag herself to the corner of the window. She knew her hands weren’t going to be able to hold on much longer, and a fall from this height, while probably not fatal, would definitely be painful and leave her a sitting duck for anyone who happened to wander by or come out of the warehouse. She gritted her teeth and kept moving, inching her feet further up the wall with each step.

When she reached the side of the window, she was able to shift her grip and drag herself upwards until her feet were planted firmly on the ledge. The whole thing was only a couple of inches thick and not an ideal perch, but it gave her the chance to rest her ruined hands a moment. She also made a mental note to herself to come up with a story to give her father explaining what happened to them.

The scaffolding was her next target. If she swung around and let herself drop by her hands, she should be able to land on it. Whether it would make enough noise that the men below would be alerted to her presence immediately or be so rotted it would give out entirely was another matter. Still, she’d come this far. There was no point turning back now. Besides, she wasn’t very sure she could make it back to the ladder, and there was no other way down that didn’t involve a lot of broken bones and pain.

Another deep breath and she lowered herself by her hands as much as she could towards the scaffolding, then let go. Amazingly, it held, though her impact was far from silent.

A light swung in her direction. She tucked and rolled, then shimmied down the nearest pole towards the next level. This wasn’t her ideal outcome—she’d hoped to keep the upper ground, possibly moving to the catwalks she’d seen not far from the scaffolding—but it was going to have to do.

The beam of light moved across the top of the scaffolding, but she was already shimmying down further and further as quickly as she could. Her gloves were torn and splinters were grinding into her cuts. Tears sprang to her eyes but she kept moving, slipping only occasionally and always managing to squeeze and wiggle away from the beam of light.

A few feet from the ground she let go and then ran as fast as she could without allowing her feet to hit the ground noisily to the nearest tower of crates. She tucked and rolled again the last few feet and made it while whoever was directing the light still had it trained on the scaffolding.

She took several deep breaths, her heart pounding from more than the mad dash. She allowed herself to slump behind the crates, listening carefully.

“This place is falling apart,” a voice—not Brown’s—groused.

“Shut up,” another snapped. The light moved around the warehouse, past her hiding place, but the crates and her black costume shielded her easily. She felt like the von Trapp family in Nonnberg Abbey.

The light went off. She waited to see if they would look around more thoroughly—she was sure she could stay a step ahead of them, but only if she was completely alert—but that seemed to conclude the search. The men in the warehouse, whoever they were, clearly didn’t expect anyone to be looking for them here.

Before Barbara had left home, she’d disabled the display and sound on her phone and memorized the exact sequence required to get to the voice recorder by touch alone. Whatever was said here, she wanted as much of a record of it as she could get.

For best results, though, she knew she was going to have to move closer. She peered around the side of the crates, sizing up her best option. There was a small stack close to the group of men, but she’d have to move through the uncovered distance at least a hundred feet to reach it; on top of that, the stack was only about two or three feet high, so she would have to curl up into a very tight ball or lie flat on her stomach to stay hidden behind it, and neither of those were particularly good positions to be caught in if she needed to attack or make a run for it.

Still, as long as she didn’t get caught, it didn’t matter. She got back to her feet and moved swiftly and silently through the shadows, dropping down to her knees to crawl the last stretch.

“—for one don’t really care about Clueless here’s great escape,” one of the voices grumbled.

Perfect. Barbara set her phone down gently and listened. While they talked, she carefully peeled what was left of her gloves off of what was left of her hands, wincing with each movement. She tucked the tattered and ruined remains into her belt and tried to pick out any splinters or glass shards she could from her skin. She couldn’t have done better with her boots but had definitely failed when it came to protecting her hands. She mentally chided herself for the oversight and hoped she could get her cuts cleaned out before they got _too_ infected.

Behind her the conversation continued. “The fact of the matter is, he shouldn’t have gotten caught in the first place.”

“I told you, I got rid of all that shit!” Brown snapped. “I don’t know how it got back into my apartment.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Brown and his haranguer fell silent when this other voice spoke. “I’m ready to move on the jewelry store job.”

“No,” said a fourth voice. “Our instructions are to wait.”

“I don’t like this,” Brown groused. “We listen to these instructions and then suddenly there’s a trail of clues leading right to me.”

“Yes, and then there’s a ‘mysterious’ problem with the warrant and you’re released. There’s no way they’ll be able to arrest you now.”

“Except the police know I was involved, and they’re not going to let up on me. I know I was tailed leaving my place to get here.”

“ _What?_ You better not have led anyone to this place!”

“What kind of an infant do I look like? Of course I lost them.”

Barbara wondered if there really had been a tail. It was possible, but she doubted that if that were the case, Brown would have been able to lose them. Were there police outside the warehouse right now? She hadn’t seen signs of anyone, but if they decided they had cause to raid the place while Brown was here, that could be awkward for her.

There was no point worrying about that. All she could do was stay silent and alert.

Still, the man’s level of concern did tell her one thing: there was something here they didn’t want the police to find. She would have to inspect the warehouse more thoroughly after they’d gone.

“Forget about Gordon and his pigs. They couldn’t catch the Riddler on his worst day.”

Oh, Barbara was going to enjoy taking these guys down, whoever they were.

“There’s someone else I’m more worried about.”

Barbara heard the click a fraction of a second before it was too late. She had just enough presence of mind to grab her phone before she threw herself as far away from her hiding place as she could in one motion.

Then the crates behind her exploded.


	5. Shattered

**NOVEMBER 12, 23:27 EST**

“What the hell!” one of the voices roared, but Barbara wasn’t interested in listening anymore. Phone secured in her belt, she ran for another hiding place that hadn’t yet exploded.

The problem as she saw it: they had some kind of remote explosives. There was no way she could make it up the scaffolding and back out through the window, even if she could reach the ladder from there. The front door would take too long to get open, assuming she could open it at all. Running wasn’t going to keep her safe for long and would only tire her out. She needed to go on the offensive, immediately, before they had a chance to expect it.

Her back ached and she knew she’d been hit with shrapnel from the exploding crates, but she could tell by the fact that she was still up and moving that the wounds were all superficial. Either that or her adrenaline was really doing its job and she was already dying but didn’t know it. One of those.

No time to think about which. She spun around the side of the crates and ran straight for the cluster of men, most of who seemed to have no clue what was going on. She hit her first target hard, taking him down with _osoto otoshi_. Another fell to _sumi otoshi_. One of the men seemed to come to his senses enough to try to attack, but she pivoted into a _tsuri goshi_ with ease.

A _tomoe nage_ sent another man into a fifth, and the two of them together took out two of the lights. That was it, Barbara realized belatedly: the darkness was her best weapon. Her only goal was to get out. Their goal was to neutralize her. She controlled the battle even more if she took out that last light. She needed that advantage desperately, especially as that last throw had nearly caused her to black out from the pain.

A swift _mae geri_ sent the last light to the ground, where it shattered; before the warehouse was plunged into darkness, she noted where the door and the nearest stack of crates were.

It was total chaos. She could hear two of her opponents grappling with each other; either they were unaware of who they were actually fighting against, or they were using this opportunity to work out some long-standing grudge. Either way, that was good for Barbara.

Cutting a wide path around the epicenter of the battle, she threw her body against the backside of the crates she’d noted and sent them crashing down, hoping they took out as many of the men as possible. Also that they didn’t explode. (They didn’t.)

It was now or never. She ran for the door. The ground exit was the most obvious way out to both her and her opponents, but the window had been one-way, so it was all that was left to her. Behind her, there was another explosion that threw her forward. Did her attacker know where she was, or did he simply not care about the well-being of his comrades and had gotten lucky?

Barbara decided to assume the former. After all, whoever was controlling the explosives had found her behind the crates. Infrared vision seemed like the most reasonable assumption, whether it was natural or artificial. It also seemed reasonable to assume that it was most likely only one, or perhaps at most two, of her opponents who actually possessed this ability, as most of the men had been taken by surprise when she attacked. Still, it never did any good to underestimate. Assuming the worst was a life-saving tactic.

Suddenly Barbara knew how to use this to her advantage.

She reached the front door and tried to open it. As she suspected, she was unable to. At this point, she genuinely couldn’t tell if it was intentionally locked or she just did not have the strength to lift it. It didn’t matter, though.

She continued tugging on the door as if trying frantically to get it open, leaving herself an easy target in the meantime. She forced herself to wait—wait—

And then she was out of the way, the explosion striking where she’d been only a second before. She hoped she wasn’t doing irreparable damage to her internal organs with all of this. In the mean time, though, her plan worked exactly as she’d intended, and a large hole was blasted in the side of the warehouse.

She didn’t hesitate or glance back. She ran. Her feet were the only part of her body that wasn’t torn up or battered at this point, and she pounded them against the pavement as hard and fast as she could. She needed to get lost, immediately.

A gunshot ricocheted off the ground just beside her.

“The next one won’t miss. I’d urge you to stop.”

Barbara stopped. Better to let him get close and knock the gun away first than take the chance on whether or not he’d be able to hit her as she ran.

She spun on her heel to face him.

He burst out laughing. “Batman. My, you’re looking different than I remember. Also, a little worse for the wear.”

“I’m not Batman,” Barbara told him. “I’m Bat _girl_. But if you really want to face Batman, just give it another minute.”

“I honestly don’t care whether or not that’s a bluff,” he said.

He was going to shoot. Barbara readied herself to dive, fairly certain there was no way her reflexes were good enough to avoid this. Explaining cut-up hands was one thing. Explaining a gunshot wound, assuming it wasn’t fatal, was going to be a bit more difficult.

There it was: the unmistakable sound of sirens. The moment’s hesitation was all Barbara needed; a _deashi harai_ had her attacker on the ground. The gun went off harmlessly (she hoped) into the air before she got it from his grip.

She was pinned in the headlights of a patrol car. Whether or not Brown had been tailed, the explosions must have brought the cops out. She hoped they would find whatever was in the warehouse that Brown’s gang didn’t want to be found.

“Freeze! Drop the weapon!”

Barbara had no intention of doing anything other than getting the hell out of there. Getting caught by the police was not an option at this point.

The gun had her blood on it, but her blood would be in the warehouse anyway. It didn’t matter if they had her DNA on file if they had nothing to match it to. So she raised her hands in a gesture of surrender and dropped the gun, kicking it away.

When the policeman was getting out of the car, she bolted, heading for the safety of the shadows again. She needed to get out of the area as quickly as possible; more cars were on their way and there was no telling whether or not helicopter support would get involved as well. If she didn’t get away now, she wasn’t getting away at all.

The tracker led her back to her bag in record time. She had considered just leaving it, but the police had gotten a good look at her costume, which meant she needed to get back into street clothes as soon as she could. She may have to lose time now, but it could make all the difference later.

Waterfront Park was nearby. She made a beeline for it, never glancing back to see if she was being followed; that would only slow her down.

The park was deserted, which was not surprising given it was midnight. Even so she never slowed until she reached the restroom and threw herself inside.

First things first. She stripped off her ruined cape and catsuit; tearing them apart even with her sore hands was easy enough considering they were already close to complete tatters. The frozen night air almost felt good on the burning heat of her injuries.

She picked out more of the glass and splinters now that she had the light to see by. Fortunately only one or two of the cuts went very deep; the rest of the injuries were fairly superficial. Her bigger concern just then was infection. As soon as she was tidied and dressed, she would head for a convenience store to buy something that could better clean them. It was possible the records of her purchase could make their way into police hands later, but she was going to have to take that chance. She needed to patch herself up as soon as she possibly could.

She used paper towels, soap, and the sink to rinse away as much of the blood and dirt as she could. Then she used the remnants of her costume to wrap her hands and staunch any remaining blood flow. She didn’t know what to do about her back. She washed it off as best as she could for the time being. She supposed she’d have to go over it with a needle later and dig any splinters out by feel.

She felt a little more human once she was dressed. Unfortunately, no buses would be running for another four or five hours. Barbara had been prepared to be stranded: as far as her father knew, she was spending the night at a friend’s house. In the mean time, she would head to the public library. It would be closed at this point, obviously, but she could make herself comfortable and a little warmer in the shrubbery until morning. Besides, it was Sunday, which meant it would stay closed, so nobody would be coming around. It seemed like the best place to crash for a little while.

In the distance, she could hear sirens and a helicopter. She pulled up her hood and hurried into the night.


	6. Coverage

**NOVEMBER 14, 07:55 EST**

Monday morning rolled around and, unsurprisingly, Barbara still felt like she’d been in—well, like she’d been in a six-on-one brawl involving broken glass, splinters, and small controlled explosions.

She’d explained her hands and general stiffness to her father as resulting from an accident at her “friend’s” house involving a junk-filled attic, a large rat, and an old cracked mirror. He’d wanted to take her to the doctor’s, but somehow she’d managed to convince him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, and also that her supposed friend was certified in first aid, which was a dimension to the lie that she’d come up with right at that moment rather than beforehand. She thought it was a pretty good one, really.

Still, there was Monday to contend with, and that meant school. She found herself at Gotham Academy, hands inside a new pair of gloves (though not superhero gloves, which she still needed to look into), diverting most of her energy to standing upright, walking normally, and keeping the grimace of pain off her face.

“Hey, Babs,” Dick said, appearing at her side in that ninja way he had. “What’s the matter with you?”

And here she thought she was doing such a good job of looking the same as always. “Slept weird,” she replied, twisting her neck like she was trying to stretch out a stiff muscle in it. In reality, her neck was bothering her less than most of the rest of her body.

“Where, on a bed of nails?”

Barbara decided to believe that it was less her failure and more that Dick was just freakishly observant. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d noticed things normal human beings shouldn’t have. “No, just one of those nights, you know?”

“Yeah. Sure. But if it was, hypothetically, something else, you know you wouldn’t have to pretend to be so apathetic with me, right? You could totally be pathetic.” He paused. “I didn’t think that one over before I said it.”

Barbara rolled her eyes but smiled at him anyway. “I’ll keep that in mind, hypothetically.”

She kept her gloves on all day. Writing by hand was almost impossible, but it would have been difficult anyway. If anyone asked, she claimed to be having a problem with cold hands due to anemia. Everyone seemed to want to give her advice about how to treat it: eat liver, drink orange juice with meals, take supplements, drink orange juice with the supplements.

When Bette Kane, student liaison, tennis star, newspaper writer, debutante, and one-girl cheerleading squad for everything in the universe, cornered her and Dick during lunch, Barbara was sure it was going to be to try to give her peanuts or something.

“Hey, guys. Mind if I ask you a few questions for an article I’m writing?”

“’bout what?” Dick asked around a mouthful of chicken salad sandwich.

“Batgirl.”

Dick almost choked on his sandwich. Barbara patted him on the back, her face carefully blank.

“Batgirl?” she repeated. “Is this some kind of Batman-in-a-dress meme I don’t know about?”

Bette looked shocked as she helped herself to the seat across from them. “You mean you haven’t heard about _Batgirl_? I would have thought you of all people would know everything about her!”

“Why should I know anything?” Barbara asked, trying to look casual as she took a drink of her soda.

“Because of your dad!” Bette said. She pouted, looking disappointed. “I thought for sure you’d have the best scoop. I really wanted this article to shine. He didn’t mention _anything_ to you about her?”

“Nope, sorry. My dad doesn’t like to bring his work home with him unless there’s a reason,” she said. This was more or less true. Jim Gordon did share some things with his daughter, but rather sparingly. His work could be a bit intense, for obvious reasons, and he seemed to think not all the details were fit for sharing with a thirteen-year-old. Not to mention that the police had to be secretive about a lot of things by nature, and Barbara understood that. That was why she had his network password.

“Here.” Bette pulled a newspaper out of her bag and laid it out on the table in front of them. It was open to page four.

Page four? Not bad for her print debut, Barbara supposed. There was a grainy photo that she realized must have been taken using the policeman’s dashboard camera. _Schoolgirl prank?_ the caption wondered.

Yeah, some prank. She’d only subdued six full-grown men almost single-handedly. And, admittedly, nearly gotten herself blown up and then shot in the process, but as far as she was concerned, that only made it less prank-like.

The article named the men taken into custody by the police that night. She memorized their names: _Booker, Brown, Lawton, Pramble, Ratchett, Tockman_. She wondered which was the one who’d tried to blow up and shoot her. It was impossible to tell without photos, and the only photo with the article was hers. She would have to look all of them up later.

If the police had found anything incriminating in the warehouse, the article didn’t say.

“Huh,” said Barbara. “Weird. Gonna need a spreadsheet to keep track of all these people soon, especially if they can’t even bother coming up with different names for themselves. Is there a Bat _boy_? He could have a baseball motif instead of a bat motif. That’d make it easier to tell him apart.”

“I… I don’t think so?” Bette considered this seriously.

The article speculated on who “Batgirl” could be: a suicidal fangirl, a delusional kid, an elaborate ploy working on behalf of the criminal element of the city? Barbara handed it back to Bette with a shrug, trying not to let her annoyance show on her face. “Well. Sorry. Like I said, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Do you think maybe I could talk to your dad about it myself?” Bette asked.

This was just getting awkward now. “I don’t know. Any information he’d be willing to share would most likely be in whatever official press releases are already out. The police can’t tell the public everything, you know.”

Bette clasped her hands and held them up to her face, an unabashedly supplicatory gesture. “Please? I won’t need more than a half an hour, an hour at the absolute _most_ , and I could come over to your house, or do it by phone, or at the station, or whatever’s most convenient for him.”

Barbara found her gaze drifting back down to the photo on page four. “I… guess I could ask him. But don’t expect anything, okay?”

Bette jumped up, grinning like she’d just been crowned Miss America. “Thank you thank you _thank you so much_ , Barbara! This is such a huge favor you’re doing for me! This is going to be the best article the Gotham Academy Beacon has ever published. I bet I’ll have a chance at winning the NSPA Story of the Year award with this piece! Just think: future Gotham Academy classes will use it as a template for high school journalism done right. They’ll erect a statue to me in the quad. Bette Kane: Reporter, Visionary, Inspiration. Oh my gosh, what should I wear when I pose for it? Also, what’s in for statues these days? Marble? Copper? Wait, no, then I’d get a patina, and green is _such_ an awful color on me. The horror of being _tarnished_. I’ll request some kind of stone, I think.”

Bette wandered off, possibly planning her future ascension to the throne of the universe.

“You’ve created a monster,” Dick said, watching her go.

“That monster wasn’t created. She was born.” Barbara stood, picking up the newspaper that Bette had left behind and dumping it, its page four, and the rest of her lunch into the trash. She’d lost her appetite.


	7. Masks

**NOVEMBER 17, 18:06 EST**

It would have been an eventful autumn for Barbara already even if she weren’t taking on the extracurricular activity of becoming a superhero. Apart from the annual school starting and birthday dates in September, giant plant creatures attacked in October, and then November came and all the adults disappeared temporarily, followed by a massive continent-wide snowstorm shortly before her first tussle with Brown and his cohorts. Barbara grudgingly had to admit that her father had been right: Batman really _did_ have a lot to deal with. But he had the entire Justice League at his back. Could he really not take any time to make sure Gotham was doing all right when it came to dealing with regular, non-super villains?

The snowstorm in particular was still big news, which was fine by her; it kept reporters from needing to dig for stories, which meant Batgirl was a mere footnote and fading fast. Her hands were healing as well as could be expected, but with Brown in jail, did she really need to don that mantle again anyway?

The answer was yes, and she realized she’d known it before she’d even asked herself the question. Putting aside the lingering unknowns about Brown and his group, they were hardly the only criminals in the city. Barbara hadn’t gone after Brown personally; she’d gone after a problem her father needed help solving. Brown was locked up—for now—but that didn’t mean the problem was solved.

After much rumination on the question, Barbara came to the conclusion that her first outing had been less than a disaster. After all, no one had died, and the bad guys had been arrested. She’d also gathered a bit of information, though she entertained no illusions that she really knew what to do with it.

It was less than a success, though. The only parts of her outfit that had done their job were the boots and the sigil, and the latter was debatable. Where did superheroes get their clothing manufactured? Did they use some kind of top secret material not available to the general public? Batman always looked pretty much flawless in his costume, or at least as flawless as a grown man dressed up like a bat could look anyway.

She was pondering her options and her next move while sitting at dinner across from the one reporter in the city who _did_ care about Batgirl: Bette Kane. Fortunately she was under no obligation to make conversation, as Bette seemed perfectly happy to carry that all by herself.

“I just think the whole thing is _so cool_. I mean, sure, there are some women who are superheroes, but they usually have special powers, you know? Like Wonder Woman. I idolize her but I could never _be_ her because I’m just Bette Kane, right? And there are even fewer young girls, and like, I can’t be Miss Martian either, because I’m not Martian. So Batgirl is just, like, a superhero I can really _relate_ to, you know?”

Jim Gordon cocked his head thoughtfully. “Are you saying _you_ want to become a superhero?”

“No.” Bette paused. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, it’s the twenty-first century. I can be whatever I want to be, right? I don’t like to limit myself.”

“That’s an admirable viewpoint to take, but I’d have to advise against it in this case.” He set down his fork and folded his hands on the table, looking Bette straight in the eye. “It’s dangerous work, not something to be taken on lightly. It’s not a hobby, a sport, or a game. Not to mention that it is essentially vigilante work, which I as a policeman can’t condone.”

“Right, right,” said Bette with a nod. “All though to be fair, I have been doing gymnastics since I could walk, and I’m a brown belt in aikido, but of course, your point still stands.”

Barbara blinked. She didn’t know that about Bette. Sure, she was athletic and one of the top junior tennis players in the region, but a trained gymnast and _aikidoka_ on top of all her other school activities? Barbara was beginning to wonder if Bette ever slept. Somehow, she could believe she didn’t. Bette’s eyes had a sort of feverish, glassy look to them, but Barbara had always chalked that up to her being… well, Bette.

Jim gave her a small smile. “I’ve just seen a number of children think they could be the next Batman and things didn’t turn out for them half so well as this Batgirl, who, quite frankly, got lucky more than anything else.”

 _Thanks, Dad,_ Barbara had to bite her tongue to keep from saying.

“Do you think Batgirl is working with Batman? A sort of a distaff counterpart to Robin? Do you think it’s possible Batman could be seriously interested in recruiting and training children to follow in his footsteps? Or perhaps he has more sinister motives? Could this be only the beginning?”

Jim was watching Bette as she spoke. Barbara knew that look. Bette inspired it in a lot of people upon first meeting them. It was a combination of trying to keep up with her train of thought and worrying she was going to somehow asphyxiate herself.

He blinked, realizing he was meant to respond. “I trust Batman’s intentions are good,” he said carefully. “I have no evidence to suggest that this ‘Batgirl’ is anything other than a… Barbara, what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Poseur, Dad.”

“Right. A poseur.”

Bette took notes as he spoke, though she was also recording every word. “Is that the department’s official stance on the issue?”

“Our official stance is that this was an isolated incident of a young vigilante who is lucky to be alive.”

“Isolated? So you think this is the last we’ve heard of Batgirl?”

Jim shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t say, but it would not surprise me, no.”

Barbara picked at her lasagna and tried not to take what her father was saying personally—though, of course, she doubted his opinion would change even if he knew she was the one under that cowl. No, that wasn’t true; he’d object even more in that case. As a general rule, he didn’t look too fondly on vigilantes. He trusted Batman because Batman had earned that trust through years of good work. And he recognized the need for organizations like the Justice League, because there were villains in the world who were beyond local law enforcement. But other than that, he believed things should be left to the authorities.

All the same, it took every ounce of willpower she had to keep herself from standing up and shouting, “I did it _for you_ , Dad. You’re welcome?”

“Not a fan of lasagna, Bette?” Jim asked.

“Actually, I’m a vegan,” Bette said, glancing down at her untouched food. “I’m sorry, I should have said so before I came over. It just slipped my mind.”

Barbara couldn’t help but feel Bette’s mind had to be a pretty slippery place.

“No, it’s all right. We have some, ah… There’s some… Barbara?”

“I can get you a glass of water and a piece of bread.”

“Actually, most breads sold have milk in them,” Bette said delicately.

“Gummy bears?”

“Gelatin.”

Barbara rested her chin on her fist. “Peanut butter? Oh wait, butter.”

“There’s actually no dairy in peanut butter! Weird, right?”

Bette seemed so excited to share this fact that Barbara didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d been joking. “So… would you like some peanut butter?”

“No thank you; I’m allergic.”

Maybe it wasn’t sleeping Bette was cutting out for extra time, but rather eating.

“I’m fine, really. This… _smells_ really lovely.” She leaned over and inhaled the scent of cheesy pasta. “Mmm. So, Commissioner Gordon. If you could say anything directly to Batgirl, what would it be? After all, she just may read this article. Who knows?”

Jim pursed his lips and Barbara could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Well. I would tell her that while her goals are admirable, we very much don’t want to see her hurt or worse in the process of pursuing them, and she really should just call the authorities next time. We are grateful for what she did and appreciate her efforts but the Gotham City Police Department can take it from here.”

“Off the record, though, she’s pretty cool, right?”

“Off the record?” Jim quirked an eyebrow. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose. But only off the record. I don’t want anyone thinking I condone this.”

“Of course, sir.” Bette switched off her recorder and set her pencil down. “I can’t thank you enough for giving me your time today. I know how valuable it is.”

“Anything for a friend of Barbara’s. I’m sorry again about the food.”

“It’s not a problem. I have an allergen-free protein bar in my bag. If it’s not too much trouble, may I use your restroom? Not to eat the protein bar. To… rest.”

“Of course. It’s right down…”

Barbara shook her head. “Remember the unfortunate… incident?”

“Ah. Right.” Jim pointed to the stairs. “You’ll have to use the upstairs bathroom, I’m afraid. it’s just… up the stairs, on the right.”

“Thank you.” Bette stood up, packing her tape recorder, notepad, and pencil into her bag before taking the whole thing up the stairs with her.

“She’s… quite a character,” Jim said after a long pause. “Is she related to Colonel Jacob Kane, by any chance?”

Barbara shrugged. “Maybe. Actually I think Charles Foster Kane is her cousin. And Reverend Henry Kane—”

“Oh, eat your lasagna.”

“Can’t, I’m vegan now.”

Bette came running down the stairs, muttering an apology and heading straight for the front door.

Barbara blinked. “You don’t think she heard, do you?”

Jim gave her a look.

Barbara sighed and stood, then hurried after Bette.

She caught up with her halfway down the street. “Bette, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly.”

Bette shifted on her feet nervously. “By what? I mean. It’s okay.”

Barbara frowned. “You… didn’t hear.”

“Yeah, no, I totally did, I just… I have to get home? I mean, I have to get home.”

“Then let my dad drive you. He’d be more than happy to.”

“That’s okay. I’ll walk.”

“But you’re in such a…”

That was when Barbara saw the corner of black fabric sticking out of Bette’s bag.

Her cowl, the only recognizable part of her costume that had survived.

Barbara grabbed it and pulled it out with one sharp motion. “You were in my room?”

“I took a wrong turn. It was an honest accident.”

“Was it an ‘honest accident’ you went through my closet?”

Bette bit her lip. “No, that was a little bit more on purpose…”

“So, what? I bet you think this means I’m Batgirl now or something, right?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes.”

Barbara put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m not. This was just part of an old Halloween costume.”

“Oh. So you wouldn’t mind if when I run my story, I include this bit of information, along with the fact that it would make sense, seeing as your father is the police commissioner?”

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “Of course I’d mind.”

“But if you’re not really Batgirl, then what difference does it make?”

“I don’t want people getting the wrong idea. And it could get my father in a lot of trouble.”

Bette crossed her arms over her chest and considered the matter for a moment. “I won’t print anything about you under one condition.”

“What is it? I may or may not agree to it.”

Bette grinned, her eyes flashing. “I want in.”


	8. First Lesson

**NOVEMBER 20, 00:13 EST**

If it hadn’t been so irritating, Barbara could have almost admired how neatly Bette had backed her into a corner. Bette had nothing to lose from this gamble, right or wrong.

Barbara, on the other hand, could _only_ lose. She could keep denying she was Batgirl, but Bette would run the story either way. Barbara knew how fragile secret identities could be. There were a lot of young girls in Gotham City, and the only photo they had of her was not very high quality—even her own father hadn’t been able to identify her from it. But once somebody made that connection, things would start clicking _en masse _. While the Gotham Academy Beacon wasn’t nearly as widely-read as Bette might have liked to believe, it could still do some serious damage. The children of Gotham City’s most influential citizens all went to Gotham Academy. The last thing she needed was Hamilton Hill’s kids telling Daddy they went to school with Batgirl.__

The worst part was the effect it was guaranteed to have on her father. The speculation alone would be enough to ruin him. She could see it now: _Police Commissioner Gordon uses teenage daughter as curator of vigilante “justice” in order to circumvent the rights of Gotham’s citizens_.

And that was why Barbara was once again doing something incredibly foolish. Returning to the scene was such a cliché rookie mistake, but she had to let Bette know what she was in for. Obviously Bette thought this was all fun and games. Barbara wanted to snap her out of that delusion immediately.

The only signs of what had happened the week before were the hole blown in the warehouse wall and the yellow police tape that crisscrossed it. The police themselves were gone; it was the middle of the night, after all.

“Whoa,” Bette said, stepping up to the hole. “It really happened.”

Barbara parted the tape and stepped through; hesitantly, Bette followed.

“Won’t we get in trouble?”

“Only if we get caught,” Barbara said. She turned on the camping lantern she’d brought and shined it around the warehouse. As she’d suspected, the crates that hadn’t been destroyed in the brawl had all been taken away and most likely were checked into evidence down at the station. She would have liked to get a chance to look at them herself, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. There were still splintery shards and broken glass scattered around, and in spite of herself, she almost felt like echoing Bette: _it really happened_.

“I came in through there.” She pointed up at the broken windows. “Then I came down the scaffolding. I nearly got caught right there.”

“Wow. How’d you do that without hurting yourself?”

“I didn’t.” Barbara removed one of her gloves and showed Bette the ugly jagged scars left over from her adventures.

Bette sucked in air sharply between her teeth. “That on top of your anemia? You are one unlucky kid.”

Barbara decided not to bother with that one. “I hid around there. There were some crates. But one of the guys I think had infrared vision and he launched some kind of explosive at me. There were six men total.”

“Booker, Brown, Lawton, Pramble, Ratchett, Tockman,” Bette recited with a grin. “I read that article like a hundred times.”

“Right… Well, I ran straight at them and knocked out their lights to give myself the advantage. Literal lights, that is, as in lamps, not… anyway.” Oh great. Now she was starting to talk like Bette. “When I realized one of them was still tracking me somehow, I ran for the door and let him blow it open himself.” She pointed to her escape route.

Bette let out a breath. “And that’s how you got away.”

“No. He followed after me. With a gun. He was going to shoot when the police showed up. When my dad said I got lucky, he was right.” She hated saying the words out loud, but they were true, and she held Bette’s gaze steadily as she said them to drive them home.

To her credit, Bette didn’t flinch. “So this is gonna be pretty awesome, right? You and me working as a team. There’s a lot two can do that one can’t.”

Barbara planted her face in the palm of her hand. “I don’t think you’re listening to what I’m saying.”

“You’re saying that if you’d had backup, things would have gone more smoothly. Right?”

“No. I mean, they _might_ have, but they _might_ have gone the same, and they _might_ have gone even worse. What I’m _saying_ is, this is serious.”

“Serious. Right. Yeah, I get you. Oh my gosh, I just had a thought. What if we were going after some criminals or something and _Batman_ showed up? How _cool_ would that be? And then we could be like, hey, remember that one time we busted a guy with Batman? Hey, do you know who Batman is? Any ideas? Has your dad ever let you meet him?”

“No,” Barbara answered to all of the above.

“So is Batman your favorite member of the Justice League? Is that why you decided to be Batgirl? Is this some kind of ploy to get his attention? Should I call myself Supergirl? Superman is _so dreamy_. Not that Batman is bad either. At least I _think_ so. I mean, mask and all. Oh oh oh, you know who’s _super_ hot? That guy who used to be Green Arrow’s sidekick. _And_ he’s not that much older than us. Babs—can I call you Babs?”

“No.”

“I just ask because Dick always calls you Babs and I think that is _so cute_. Are you guys a couple? You guys would be the _cutest couple ever_. All though I don’t think I’d ever want to date a guy who’s shorter than me. It’s not anything against short guys, it’s just a personal preference. Then again, he’s still growing, I’m sure, so he’ll probably end up being taller than you after all. If not, don’t let him wear lifts. I think that is the saddest thing ever. It’s one thing to be short, it’s another thing to be so self-conscious about it, you know? And it’s like toupées, you’re seriously not fooling anybody there, am I right?”

Barbara just stared. Did Bette even listen to herself talk?

“Hm. Maybe I should try like a tennis theme. Match Girl! No, that sounds like I sell matches. Love Game! No, that sounds stupid unless it’s a Lady Gaga song. Wimbledon!”

“How about Deuce Court.”

“Hm, no… Topspin? Golden Slam? Buggy Whip? Racquet? Maybe I’m coming at this from the wrong angle. I suppose I could decide what my costume should look like first. I look _to die for_ in red. So maybe something with fire? Ooh! Then I _could_ use Match Girl, and it would be like, a pun!”

“Red’s not very good for blending into… anything,” Barbara pointed out.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Look, you know why Batman wears black?”

“Because it’s totally slimming?”

“No. Because it’s dark. Because he does a lot of his work at night, and he can disappear into the shadows easily in black. Because it gives him a tactical advantage.”

Bette frowned. “But black is so… _black_. It looks awful with my complexion. Completely washes me out, you know? Babs, don’t tell me you’re sticking with black. Thank goodness you have me on your team now. I bet you’d look killer in blue, or purple!”

“I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously.”

“Oh, come on. I so am! That doesn’t mean it can’t be fun, too.”

Barbara sighed. This trip had not had the intended effect at _all_. If anything, Bette was only more excited than ever.

“Now, I’m definitely thinking red and yellow, to create some kind of fiery theme. For me, I mean. You could never pull red off. I don’t mean that in a bitchy way, just, you have red hair and all. Or I guess that’s more auburn, but still. Oh, and maybe a cute miniskirt!”

“Bette, I can’t imagine a garment in the world less suited for crime fighting than a miniskirt.”

“Exactly why it’s perfect. They’ll never be expecting it!”

“I don’t…” Barbara gave up. “Bette, you’re a gymnast, right?”

“Since I could walk. I won my first medal when I was four years old!”

“Brava,” said Barbara. “Now, just imagine doing a backflip in a miniskirt.”

Bette’s eyes drifted upward as she thought. “Okay. Now what?”

“No, I mean—wouldn’t it be difficult?”

Bette considered this. “Nah. As long as it was nice and loose. No pencil skirts. Those are so hard to do right anyway. You pretty much have to have a _perfect_ figure. Oh, and I’d be wearing leggings or something underneath it, of course. No free shows here, boys, I am a lady.”

“Bette, seriously. Why do you want to do this?”

“Why?” Bette blinked. “Because… because I’m _bored_.”

“ _Bored_? Are you kidding me? I’m already trying to figure out when you find time to sleep!”

Bette waved a hand dismissively. “I know I do a lot of stuff, but it just gets so… I don’t know. Tedious after a while. I haven’t done a gymnastics competition in a year because I kept winning by a landslide every time. I’m thinking of quitting tennis. Nobody really gives me much of a challenge anymore. That’s why I like doing the paper at school. I still haven’t reached the pinnacle of my success there. But I can tell it’s only a matter of time, really. There’s nobody else in my class who’s even a very good candidate for editor, so unless the second coming of Lois Lane transfers in before I’m a senior, I’ve pretty much got that in the bag.”

“Okay, self esteem is great and all, but overconfidence will get you hurt or worse at this gig.”

“No, see, that’s my point exactly!” Bette’s eyes lit up like someone had flipped a switch on the other side. “I don’t know _anything_ about what it _really_ means to be a superhero! This is something completely new and different to me. I have no idea what I’m walking into. It’s perfect! It’s just what I need!”

“Bette, this isn’t the line of work for a teenage adrenaline junkie.”

“It’s not that at all. It’s not about the rush, it’s about the… the change. The breaking up of the monotony.”

Barbara realized Bette was putting an expiration date on her time as a superhero. She’d get bored with it and find something else she could do to entertain herself. That knowledge made the thought of facing whatever came next a little more bearable. Assuming she didn’t get them both killed first, that was.

“All right. Well. Look, it’s late and I’m freezing. Can we head back to your place now? I’d really like to get some work done on my English assignment.”

According to Bette, her parents were pretty absentee (the term she’d used was “laissez-faire”), which meant the girls could be out all night and nobody would make a fuss. As potentially excruciating as a sleepover with Bette sounded, Barbara had concluded that it would be better than spending another night in some bushes.

“Wait, you seriously want to go home and do _homework_? You desperately needed me in your life sooner. Come on.” She took Barbara’s hand and dragged her back towards the exit. “We’ll do each other’s hair, and we’ll talk about boys—or girls, if you prefer—and we’ll watch horror films until dawn!”

Somehow, this all sounded so much more painful to Barbara than her encounter with Brown’s gang. She spent the whole way back to Bette’s place seriously reconsidering her opinion of shrubbery.


	9. Decisiveness

**NOVEMBER 20, 12:57 EST**

Barbara’s phone rang when she was halfway through her math homework. She considered ignoring it. She hadn’t had enough of a break to deal with this yet.

With great reluctance, she answered. “Hi Bette.”

“Okay so I was thinking maybe we could do like some kind of theme between the two of us. Like opposites or something like that. You can be the cool, reserved one and I’ll be the fun, friendly one.”

Barbara just sighed.

“Yes! Like that! Exactly. So in that vein, if my costume is red, logically yours should be blue. Right?”

“Wrong. I’m sticking with black.”

“Ah, yeah, we should settle it later, you’re right. Oh, hey, I bet you’d look amazing in indigo. Oh my gosh, I just had the best idea for your new costume! I’m going to base it on this dress I saw in this month’s Vogue.”

“Bette. My costume is not up for debate.”

“But you need a new one anyway, right? You said your last one got ruined.”

“Yes. But the design is going to stay essentially the same. I’m not putting on a fashion show. I’m capturing criminals.”

“I don’t see why we can’t do both! I’m going to do some sketches and then I’ll call you back, okay? ’Bye!”

“Bette—”

But the other line had already gone dead.

* * *

**16:30 EST**

“Hello Bette.”

“So I’m still a little stuck on my nickname, right? And then suddenly it hit me: what’s the opposite of a bat?”

Barbara blinked. “A dishwasher?” she guessed.

“No, silly! An earthworm!”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Duh, me.”

“But _then_ I was like, jay kay, who wants to be Wormgirl, right? But _that_ got me thinking about flying mammals. And I thought, squirrels! But then I remembered that one’s already taken. _Plus_ , squirrels don’t really fly anyway, they glide. As it turns out, the only truly flying mammal _is_ the bat!”

“Bette, is there an end to this story?”

“There would have to be, wouldn’t there? But I don’t know it. I just wanted to call to tell you I’m still stuck.”

“Good night, Bette.”

Barbara turned her phone off.

* * *

**NOVEMBER 21, 12:12 EST**

Dick peered over her shoulder. “Babs, is there a reason Bette Kane is waving at you?”

Barbara glanced back and groaned. Bette saw her looking and waved more enthusiastically, then started making her way across the dining hall.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Is she still bothering you about Batgirl? I thought she already talked to your dad.”

“She did. She thinks we’re besties now or something.”

“Babs!” Bette called.

In the fraction of a second Barbara glanced away from him, Dick vanished.

“That little—”

“Hi!” Bette sat across from her. Another blond girl, this one gray-eyed and east Asian, sat next to her.

“Hey. Where’d Dick go? I thought I saw him over here with you. Did he ninja out?” Bette turned to the girl beside her. “He does that. He’s so weird.” To Barbara she said, “Babs, this is Artemis. It’s her first year here and I’m her student liaison. Artemis, this is Babs.”

“Babs and Dick,” Artemis said dryly. “And I thought my parents were villains.”

“Barbara,” Barbara corrected. “It’s a family name.”

“Yeah, I can’t get away with that one. My family’s not even Greek.”

“Barbara’s dad is Police Commissioner Gordon,” Bette went on. “He’s super nice and he’s got an awesome mustache. Normally a mustache like that would just make a guy look creepy, but he _totally_ pulls it off. I was way impressed.”

Artemis’s dark eyes widened slightly, an expression Barbara got the feeling was the rough equivalent of Bette getting up on the table and having a screaming fit. “Really? That’s, uh, pretty cool.”

“Is it?” Barbara said.

Artemis shrugged. “Just seems like everybody here’s got parents who are somebody. Police commissioner is cooler than that girl whose mom is a former Miss Gotham.”

“That was my mom,” Bette said.

“Was it? Oh yeah.”

Bette laughed. “She’s always saying things like that. This girl is hi _lar_ ious!”

Behind Artemis, Barbara spotted Dick. He snapped a photo with his camera, and then, shaking with silent laughter, he vanished again.

* * *

**16:44 EST**

“Bette, don’t you have homework or something?”

“Huh? Oh, already done it. Listen, I had an idea. Maybe I don’t _need_ a secret identity. Not everyone has one, right? Like Zatara?”

“No. Absolutely not. The entire purpose of me letting you ‘play’ is to protect my own identity, and that means keeping yours secret as well. I’m not giving anybody any clues I don’t have to. I really, _really_ don’t care _what_ you pick, as long as it’s nothing even remotely resembling ‘Mary,’ ‘Elizabeth,’ or ‘Kane.’”

“So I guess Citizen Kane is out too?”

“You guess correctly.”

“Okay I get you. Also I was thinking, so bats are the only flying mammals, but there are, obviously, other animals that fly. Like birds, for example. So how does this sound: _Flamebird_.”

“Fine. Perfect. Great.”

“You really think so? I know just what I’m going to do with my cape, too, so it looks like flaming wings!”

Barbara put her head in her hand, giving up on trying to explain the inherent problem with flashiness. “Super. I’m hanging up now.” And she did.

* * *

**23:19 EST**

“Bette?”

“And then I was like, Flamebird. Wait. That sounds kind of weird. Maybe I should just go with Phoenix? But _then_ I was like, wait, is that already taken? I wasn’t sure. So _then_ I was like, hm, Batgirl, Phoenix. Batgirl, Flamebird. Which works better together, do you think?”

Barbara ended the call without another word and went back to sleep.

* * *

**NOVEMBER 22, 07:52 EST**

“Look!” Bette bounced up to Barbara the next morning, a grin covering most of her face. “Look look look! I give you _Flamebird_!”

“Shh!” Barbara snapped, yanking the sketchpad out of Bette’s hand. “Do we need to go over the part about how broadcasting everything is bad _yet again_?”

Bette tried to look sheepish, but she was giggling. “Oops, sorry. Right. Shh. But _look_.”

Barbara looked. The sketches showed a front, side, and back view of Bette in a costume of reds and yellows, with a loose miniskirt, leggings, and a cape that ended in the outline of dancing flames. The sketches themselves were incredible. Fashion and art must have been another thing Bette did when bored. At some point Barbara had come to the conclusion that Bette didn’t forego sleep; she simply must have found it too boring on its own and combined it with other things, like jazz dancing.

“I don’t suppose pointing out that it’s too loud is going to get me anywhere, is it?”

“You suppose correctly!”

Barbara sighed, handing the sketchbook back. “Fine. The mask should cover more of your face. And make it durable. And you’ll need a good, sturdy pair of gloves, trust me.”

“ _More_ of my face? But…” Bette fell silent at the look Barbara gave her. “Okay, okay. But seriously, how adorable am I going to look?”

“Totally freaking adorable,” Barbara said entirely without enthusiasm.

Bette squealed. “This is so exciting! I’ll let you know when I’m ready, and then we can go on _our first patrol_ , okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she bounced off.

Barbara hoped it took her a long time to get the costume finished. She was too young to die just yet.


	10. Chances

**NOVEMBER 30, 15:11 EST**

Somehow the time it took for Bette to perfect her costume simultaneously took a geological age and an eye blink. She’d wanted to call Barbara every time she made a stitch or a purchase, so Barbara had decided that if Bette had time for that, she had time to work out.

Bette pulled some of the numerous strings at her disposal and soon twice a week the two of them had the run of the gym where she normally practiced. There Bette taught Barbara the basics of gymnastics and aikido, and in exchange Barbara taught Bette some of her judo. Bette turned out to be a surprisingly competent instructor and pupil, and Barbara found she almost enjoyed spending time with her in that capacity. They kept each other so busy Bette hardly had any time to go off on tangents or quiz Barbara about her non-existent “relationship” with Dick.

But Barbara knew that this was only prep work. The real test was just around the corner. Had her father been right, and her first outing was nothing but a fluke? What did she need to do differently so that luck needn’t be a factor?

To begin with, she decided it was time to pay her father’s office another visit. She conveniently forgot to mention she had any such plans to Bette, who was guaranteed to want to tag along, and that was the _last_ thing Barbara needed.

“Hi, Stacy.”

“Hello, Barbara. Your dad forget his lunch again?”

“Actually, no. See, the thing is, my computer’s on the fritz, so my dad said I could come here and use his to work on my paper for school.”

“Oh! Of course. You know where to find it. Just log in as a guest and you should have access to anything you need to write your paper.” Stacy smiled at her.

“Thanks so much, Stacy.” Barbara slipped past her into her father’s office, shutting the door behind her. That should give her as much time as she needed.

First, she pulled up Brown’s file to see what new information had been added. There it was, a mention of his latest arrest, charges pending.

She followed the link to the file on that particular case. She wanted to know what was in those crates.

She quickly got sidetracked when she her eyes fell on the booking photos of all six men. She took a good, hard look at each of their faces. Booker. Brown. Lawton. Pramble. Ratchett. Tockman. Lawton was the one who’d shot at her. There was no mistaking his craggy face, cleft chin, and pencil mustache. She stared at his photo the longest, as if she were staring the man himself down. As if to prove she could do such a thing. Lawton didn’t scare her.

The other men scared her even less. They each had a criminal history, mostly petty theft, with some more serious charges like assault appearing here and there. She learned the strengths and weaknesses of each of them. Lawton was known to be an expert marksman. He hadn’t been bluffing that night. Barbara let out a shaky breath and continued reading. 

Booker had a background in, of all things, meteorology. He looked to be the most petty of all of the six, though he was a fairly large man and therefore not one to underestimate physically. Pramble, on the other hand, was a small man, bald with funny eyebrows that reminded Barbara of Spock. His history was colorful: theft, forgery, fraud, even a brief stint as part of an eco-terrorist group, though his background suggested he didn’t actually have an interest in the ideology. Ratchett was the biggest of the group, bigger than Booker, a mountain of a man with below-average intelligence. His record showed that he was easily manipulated and had never actually committed any crimes on his own, only ever as part of a gang. And Tockman was a lanky, pasty man with coke bottle glasses. He had a background as a watchmaker. His criminal history was mostly in theft and unlawful flight from justice. Barbara had the feeling that he was the smartest in the group and therefore probably the most dangerous after Lawton.

Lawton, however, was clearly the one running the show—at least out of these six men. She remembered what she’d overheard that night, and again and again the numerous times she’d played the recording until she had it memorized.

_I’m ready to move on the jewelry store job._

_No. Our instructions are to wait._

_I don’t like this. We listen to these instructions and then suddenly there’s a trail of clues leading right to me._

_Yes, and then there’s a “mysterious” problem with the warrant and you’re released. There’s no way they’ll be able to arrest you now._

There was somebody _behind_ this group. They were likely behind the problems with Brown’s search warrant. Could they have also been behind the evidence that led to his initial arrest? But why go to that trouble? It’s not like Barbara took Brown’s assertion that he had gotten rid of the evidence at face value, though; obviously, even if he hadn’t, he would claim to have done. Still, there was something very much off about it all.

She went back to the case file. Her eyes fell on a singularly relevant piece of information: the section on the unknown subject identified only as “Batgirl.” The file contained the video taken by the policeman’s dashboard camera, the one from which the still the newspaper printed had come. Morbid curiosity compelled her to watch it.

It was like watching a movie starring someone else. On the screen, the small catsuited figure dropped a gun and kicked it away, then fled. She was impressed by how quickly the person in the video vanished into the shadows.

She didn’t dare turn the volume up, so she had no idea what was said as Lawton was cuffed and taken into custody. A part of her didn’t want to listen anyway. It was all too… weird. Especially when she realized she recognized one of the officers in the video. His name was Donald Peak. She’d passed him when she’d come into the station just moments before.

She closed the video and went back to the file. Evidence. She wanted to know what was in those crates.

Jewels. Diamonds. The men were smuggling diamonds. It somehow felt anticlimactic, not to mention obvious. After all, they’d been talking about hitting a jewelry store. Barbara didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Not atomic warheads, but something equally as sinister, surely?

Still, people had died in the past for much less than this. The security guard at the bank had already died for this. The file didn’t say so, but Barbara felt almost positive Lawton had been the triggerman.

And that was when she saw the note that Lawton had made bail.

Barbara plugged in her thumb drive and started copying the contents of every relevant file over. If Lawton was back on the streets, she knew what she had to do next.

The door to the office opened. Without even glancing up, she tabbed to the word processor, where she had a draft of an old paper ready for camouflage purposes.

“Babs?” Of all possible outcomes, it was the worst one: her father.

“Hi, Dad. Just working on my paper.”

“Why didn’t you tell me your computer was having problems?”

“I did.” She blinked up at him. “Didn’t I? I could have sworn I said I’d be coming down here today.”

He shook his head. “Not to me, you didn’t.”

“Ugh, seriously?” Barbara smacked herself in the forehead. “I swear, Bette must be rubbing off on me. Sorry, I really thought we’d had that whole conversation.”

Jim shrugged as he hung up his jacket. “It’s no big deal, I’m sure. Why didn’t you just use a school computer?”

“Those dinosaurs? No thanks. Besides, you know how I need my personal space and privacy while I work.” She gave him a pointed look.

He sighed. “Silly me, thinking I was at liberty to use my own office.”

“I don’t know where you get off, honestly. That sense of entitlement. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

“Clearly not enough. What’s the subject of the paper?”

“ _Hamlet_.”

“Oh? I thought you’d already finished your unit on _Hamlet_.”

“You must be thinking of _Macbeth_.”

“Oh? Well. I’ll borrow Stacy’s computer for now I suppose. I only need to check something.”

“Thanks, Dad. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

As soon as he was gone, Barbara began typing rapidly. She knew she only had minutes. She would have to cut off the download before she had all the files, but she hoped she would have enough to take her next step.

As predicted, Jim was back almost immediately. “Funny thing. I tried logging on with Stacy’s computer, and it said I was already logged on in here.”

Barbara gave him a look of confusion. “Really? That’s strange.”

She moved over and made room for him at the keyboard, but it didn’t matter; she had already logged out of his account. When he looked, all he saw was a guest logged in to write a paper about _Hamlet_.

“This stupid system. I’ll have to have someone from WayneTech in to look at it soon. We really can’t afford to have errors, even apparently minor ones. How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

“I’m done, actually,” Barbara said, closing up and removing her thumb drive. “I can print it up at school. Thanks, Dad.”

“All right. I’ll be home in a few hours, barring any emergencies.”

“Okay.” On an impulse, Barbara hugged him. “See you at dinner, Dad.” Then she grabbed her bag and ran from the station before her conscience could get the better of her.


	11. Bound

**DECEMBER 9, 23:11 EST**

“Boy is it cold!” Bette muttered for what had to be the six hundredth time that night.

Barbara had run out of variations of “I told you so” long ago, so she remained silent, peering through her binoculars at the streets of Gotham City below.

She couldn’t believe she’d thought Bette was finally taking things seriously. During their practice sessions together, Barbara had been fooled into thinking that was a possibility. Now that they were on a rooftop on a December night and Bette’s one directive was to remain still and silent, she was back to her old self.

“I hope these leggings don’t tear. I really like them. I have the cutest shirt to go with them.”

“First of all, I told you to make it durable. Second of all, your costume is not meant to double as _weekend wear_.”

“But look!” Bette stuck out her leg as if Barbara might have missed the bright yellow covering it. “Aren’t they adorable? And so comfy! Feels like I’m wearing nothing at all, nothing at all, nothing at all…”

“I told you to stop doing that.”

“Oh my gosh, make that face again. You look _just like_ Batman. It’s kind of freaky, in a really endearing way.”

“Shh! He’s on the move.”

Below, Lawton climbed into his car and started it up. Barbara switched on the tracking device. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“I just hope this isn’t like the last three nights,” Bette said with a sigh as they made their way down the fire escape to the street below. “‘He’s on the move! To the grocery store. He’s on the move! To see _The Muppets_.’ And seriously, how many lottery tickets can one person buy? Does he not realize he has a better chance of getting struck by lightning than of winning?”

“I told you that you can go home any time you want,” Barbara reminded her. “I can handle this myself.”

“Please. I wouldn’t want to leave my partner in the lurch like that! That’s just… jerky. Besides, you can’t just take the bus to follow people. Come on. You need me _and_ my ride. I painted her black just for you and everything!”

“Yeah, two girls in capes on a Vespa is really inconspicuous as long as it’s black. Don’t you have to be sixteen to drive these things, anyway?”

“Do you?” Bette cocked her head as she put on her helmet. “I’ve had this baby since I was fourteen. I just thought she was so cute, I had to have her! Aren’t you, Steffi?”

“Steffi? Your scooter has a name?”

“It’s a Vespa, and of course! After Steffi Graf, my idol.”

“I thought you said Wonder Woman was your idol.”

“I have a lot of idols.” She started the Vespa, giving Barbara just enough time to grab on before zooming off into the night. “I had a thought: I want to take up kickboxing!”

“What?”

“I want to take up kickboxing!”

“No, I mean—I heard you. Why?”

“I dunno, it just looks like fun! Plus then I could say, ‘I have killer legs—literally.’”

“Okay, well, as long as you have a solid, reasoned argument…”

They paced Lawton through Gotham, leaving him enough of a lead that they could stay out of sight, Barbara calling directions to Bette using the GPS. Barbara had to admit this _was_ a lot better than running through back alleys and hopping a bus.

“He’s stopped at Pye’s Jewels. The plot thickens. Pull over here and we’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

Lawton’s car was parked in the back. Barbara motioned for Bette to stay put, then she dropped to the ground and crawled through the shadows to retrieve her tracker. She wondered if Dick knew of a model she could remotely self-destruct. Or if she could build one herself. She had no experience with explosives, beyond Lawton trying to kill her with them, but she was confident the library would have plenty of books on the subject.

Bette and Barbara found Lawton himself in a narrow alley beside Pye’s Jewels. He was talking with a slender, redheaded woman, their voices too low to make out.

“This doesn’t look like much of a robbery,” Bette whispered. “Looks like an even worse date.”

Lawton and the woman each held a small suitcase. Lawton held his up and opened it for her to see the contents, but his back was to Bette and Barbara. When the woman held up her own suitcase, however, they could clearly see it was stuffed fill of money.

“A suitcase full of money?” Barbara whispered.

“Oh my gosh, people actually _do_ that?”

“This isn’t a robbery. It’s a sale. That woman must be an ally of his.”

“Come on, Ba—atgirl, ‘that woman’ is Margaret Pye. She owns this place.”

“Sorry, I don’t frequent the jewelry district enough to know the proprietors by name.”

Margaret Pye exchanged her suitcase with Lawton.

“What do we do now? He’s going to leave.”

Barbara bit her lip. Lawton was certainly armed, and a small part of her, the part of her that was James Gordon’s daughter, cried that this was the time to call the police.

But Lawton would be long gone by the time the police got there, and she had no doubt there wouldn’t be a trace of evidence left for them to find.

“We take them down. Now, on my signal, we—”

But Bette was already on the move. She launched herself around the corner, and with a handspring, propelled herself feet-first at Lawton’s back. Pye tried to cry out, but Lawton didn’t have the time to turn his head before Bette hit him hard, knocking him straight into Pye, the three of them going down like a dominoes.

Barbara swore under her breath and dove into the fray. She had to get Lawton’s firearms away from him—not much got through Bette’s thick skull, but Barbara had no doubts a bullet would do the trick with ease.

“Stop right there!” Bette shouted, standing up with one foot still planted on Lawton’s back. “In brightest day, in darkest night, I am the terror that flaps in the name of the moon! Wait. Shoot. Can I do that again? I practiced this so hard, I can’t believe I messed it up! I don’t usually get this nervous.”

“Batgirl,” said Lawton as Barbara frisked him, removing pistols from his waistband and a shoulder holster. “I was hoping to see you again. And I see you brought a friend. What do you go by, dear? Birdbrain?”

“Excuse you! How rude,” Bette fumed. “It’s Flamebird, thank you very much!”

An arm appeared out of the shadows and hooked itself around Bette’s neck. “You’ll have to forgive my associate. Manners have never been his strong suit.”

Barbara barely had time to react to the appearance of Tockman before a pair of hands grabbed her arms, squeezing until she dropped the guns she’d taken from Lawton. Ratchett was even stronger than she’d been expecting.

Now Barbara could see Booker, Brown, and Pramble as well. They were completely surrounded. Lawton and Pye both got to their feet, brushing themselves off.

Pye picked up the suitcase Lawton had given her and carefully expected the contents. It was full of jewels, all polished to a glittering sheen. “Ah, my babies. They look unharmed, fortunately for the two of you. For shame, Floyd, letting yourself be followed by a couple of schoolgirls.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention we’d be having guests? Batgirl and her friend have been following me for the last several nights. You really should have said hello. You would have enjoyed _The Muppets_.”

“All of you made bail?” Barbara asked. How could she have missed that in the files?

“Not exactly,” Lawton said, picking up his guns from where Barbara had dropped them. “Unless you want to consider an escape to be a sort of five finger discount on bail. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist this bait, and I wanted all our dearest friends to be here for this. I was going to kill you before simply because you were a witness. Now I’m actually going to enjoy it.”

Something heavy hit Ratchett from behind and he stumbled. Barbara didn’t hesitate. As soon as his grip loosened, she twisted into an _ouchi gari_. Breaking Ratchett’s stance proved easier than she would have thought, probably because he was already off-balance, and he went down hard. As much as Barbara would have loved throwing him right into Lawton’s smug face, this was the safer option.

Behind her, a shot went off, but it hit the wall harmlessly. She spun around to find Bette had used one of her aikido throws to send Tockman into Lawton, and both went into Pramble. Barbara kicked Lawton’s guns away, then turned her attention to Brown and Booker.

Pye had run for it, jewels in hand. Barbara would have run after her if it hadn’t meant leaving Bette alone with six men; granted, four of them were down, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get back up.

Booker came at her inelegantly, looking only to grab her; she easily redirected him right into Tockman, who had disentangled himself from Pramble and Lawton and was already getting back to his feet.

Bette twisted away from Brown’s punches and grabbed his wrist, swinging him onto the pile with the rest of them. Ratchett hadn’t moved; Barbara realized he’d knocked himself out on the wall.

“Help me with this,” Bette said, lashing the five smaller men together with a length of rope. Lawton struggled viciously, but a rabbit punch from Barbara subdued him for the time being.

“Where’s Margaret?” Bette asked. She was bleeding from her lip but otherwise looked fine.

“She ran for it,” Barbara said. “Forget her for now.”

Bette tied Ratchett’s hands just in case he should come around while Barbara checked Lawton’s pockets. She pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. “You’ll find Floyd Lawton and five prison escapees in the alley beside Pye’s Jewels. Come quickly.” She dropped the phone where she stood, then turned to Bette. “Let’s book.”

“Wait. Look.”

She pointed to the ground beside Rachett. Lying there was a brick—not very large but with decent heft.

“Someone had to have thrown that.” Bette grinned. “Batman.”

Barbara shook her head. “Batman doesn’t use _bricks_. And I doubt he would have left us here to finish things ourselves.” She grabbed Bette’s hand and together they ran.

Barbara nearly tripped over something lying in the street—it was Pye. There was another brick beside her. She was out cold but breathing.

“Yikes,” Bette said under her breath. “Glad whoever threw those was on our side.”

“We assume,” Barbara said grimly.

“Hey, do you think we’ll make the papers tomorrow?”

If they did, there would be no photos. When they reached the Vespa, Barbara pointed Bette in the direction opposite the oncoming sirens, and they sped off.

* * *

**DECEMBER 10, 01:27 EST**

Barbara made it home and up through her bedroom window without a sound. Her costume had survived this round, and she was a little bruised but otherwise uninjured. Having Bette around really had made a difference—not that she wanted to tell Bette that. Not just yet, anyway.

She tucked her costume carefully into her desk drawer and then locked it. Adrenaline was still coursing through her body, but she forced herself into bed anyway.

Down the hall, she heard a door shut. Her father must have been up and restless. She could only hope that if he’d checked on her while she was gone, the old pillows-under-the-blankets trick had actually worked.


	12. Unsettled

**DECEMBER 10, 06:16 EST**

Barbara stared at her wall, two sheets of paper sitting in front of her. One of them was her unfinished biology homework. The other was a list.

_Who gave Lawton et. al. “instructions” to rob the bank?  
Who planted the evidence in Brown’s apartment?  
Who changed the time on Brown’s search warrant?  
How did all five men break out of prison?  
Who threw the bricks that stopped Ratchett and Pye?_

The worst part about the unanswered questions on the list was that Barbara didn’t even have a clue as to how many people might be involved besides the original six. Was whoever told the gang to rob the bank the same person who got Brown out of jail? Was whoever threw the bricks the same person who planted the evidence in Brown’s apartment? Was she dealing with a mysterious individual? A group? A number of individuals working independently of one another? Multiple groups? Some combination?

None of it made any sense. Her head hurt from frustration and lack of sleep.

The thought of giving up on being Batgirl never even entered her mind. She was in too deep.

* * *

**11:34 EST**

Somewhere, a phone was ringing.

It took Barbara a long moment to realize it was _her_ phone. She lifted up her heavy head, her stiff neck protesting painfully. She was still at her desk. She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to bring her vision and thoughts back into focus. She reached out for her phone and answered it without even looking at it. “Hello?” she asked groggily.

“Babs? You sound terrible.”

“Bette?”

“Yeees… Barbara, are you all right?”

“Huh? Yeah, I just… what day is it?”

“Saturday. Still. Did I wake you up?”

“I… guess?” Barbara rubbed her neck and stretched out her back.

“Okay. Well. It’s nothing important. I’ll call you back later. Get some rest, okay?”

Barbara stared at her phone in confusion. Had Bette just ended a conversation on her own? She must have sounded half-dead.

She crawled into bed and slept for the rest of the day.

* * *

**18:29 EST**

“Barbara?” There was a gentle knocking. “Barbara, are you all right?”

Barbara sat up with some difficulty, pushing the rat’s nest formerly known as her hair out of her eyes. “Huh? Dad?”

Jim Gordon crossed the room to his daughter, putting a hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. How are you feeling?”

Barbara blinked, looking around. “What day is it?”

“Saturday. Barbara, is something wrong?”

“No, I just… couldn’t sleep last night. I have this big test on Monday I’ve been stressing about.”

“Barbara, you’ve never gotten less than a high B on any assignment in your entire life.”

“I got an eighty-five on a history test once in third grade. I’m… just saying.”

“Come on. I made dinner.”

“Let me guess: chicken and rice.”

“The James Gordon special! How did you know?”

Barbara managed a small smile. “I inherited my dad’s genius. Okay. I am pretty hungry.”

As it turned out, this was an understatement.

* * *

**DECEMBER 12, 12:17 EST**

“Tonight.” Barbara’s face was a mask of grim determination. “We’re going out again tonight.”

Bette’s eyes went wide. “What, seriously? On a school night? I thought you were all… against that.”

Barbara shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. There are too many things we don’t know, and the answers aren’t going to come to us. We have to find them ourselves.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine by me. Not before six, though. I’m having my first kickboxing class tonight!”

“Fine. I’ll call you when it’s time.”

* * *

**DECEMBER 21, 12:10 EST**

In the week and a half since their bust of Lawton, Pye, and the others, Barbara and Bette had foiled two muggings, an assault, and six liquor store hold-ups. They had been mentioned in the papers twice and on television news reports even more than that. Bette was beside herself with excitement.

Barbara, on the other hand, was only getting steadily more frustrated. She was getting the hang of this heroing business, and she knew she really was helping the police. But her questions still went unanswered.

Classes let out early the last day before winter break. Barbara was grateful for the vacation time. Her grades had started to slip—which, granted, meant that she was only second or third in her class instead of regularly setting the curve—and she needed a break. She had homework that needed to be done, so she wasn’t going to be able to spend the whole time sacked out, but at least it meant no regular classes for two weeks.

“Got any plans for break?” Dick asked as she stood with him outside while he waited for his ride home.

“Not unless you count writing that paper for Vale’s class.”

“Would you and your dad want to come over for Christmas dinner with Bruce and me? I mean, it’s just the two of you, and just the two of us—well, and Alfred…”

Barbara blinked, not sure she’d heard correctly. “Bruce Wayne wants us to come over for Christmas dinner?”

“Er, well, Dick Grayson does,” Dick said a little awkwardly. “But Bruce Wayne will be all for it as soon as Dick Grayson, you know, tells him?”

Barbara gave a small laugh in spite of herself. “Well, Barbara Gordon does like the sound of that. Though she’ll have to confer with James Gordon.”

“In that case, Dick Grayson will do the same with Bruce Wayne, and then have Bruce Wayne call James Gordon.” Dick’s ride home pulled up, and with a final grin and a wave, he climbed into the back seat, and the car pulled away.

Well, Barbara supposed even superheroes deserved some time off and a nice dinner at Wayne Manor. Maybe _especially_ superheroes.

But that didn’t mean she was done yet.

* * *

**DECEMBER 24, 00:05 EST**

“It’s officially five minutes into Christmas Eve,” Bette announced. “I wish I had my blankie.”

Barbara sighed. It wasn’t a _bad_ thing that they had come across no crimes in progress all night, but it didn’t help much to relieve her frustration.

“Yeah. Okay. That’s…”

Something buzzed.

“What’s that?” Bette asked.

Barbara took a small device out of her pocket. It was vibrating and flashing red. “It’s the alarm I planted at Pye’s.”

“You planted an alarm at Pye’s?”

“It seemed like a sound idea. And the police have been done there for days, and even if they weren’t, it’s the middle of the night. So whoever set the alarm off…”

Bette grinned. “Let’s go.”

* * *

**00:21 EST**

Pye’s was locked up tight and completely dark when they arrived.

“Maybe it went off accidentally?” Bette suggested.

Barbara shook her head. “I guess… Let’s take a look inside anyway, and then we’ll call it a night.”

Leaving behind evidence of a break-in wasn’t Barbara’s first choice, but anything important or valuable would have been taken by the police anyway, so it wouldn’t be too much of a problem if the lock on the front door was broken.

The inside was just as empty as it appeared from the outside. Barbara and Bette made their way carefully through the empty glass cases, both of them on high alert.

Barbara opened the door to a back room. It looked like an office, probably Pye’s. She stepped inside, very aware that this could be another trap.

But the office was empty.

Bette followed after. “No one. Not a soul.”

Behind them the door snapped shut and a light went on. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that!”


	13. Apotheosis

**DECEMBER 24, 00:27 EST**

Standing in the doorway like something out of a nightmare was a petite woman in a clown costume, her face heavily painted in a parody of a good time.

“Harley Quinn?” Barbara said. Granted, she didn’t know who she was expecting, but it wasn’t Harley Quinn.

“That’s the name, don’t use it until it loses its meaning, like I’m about to do with the word taco: taco taco taco taco taco taco taco taco taco taco. _Don’t_ even think about it.”

Before Bette could even move, Harley had a gun pointed straight at her.

“Isn’t it cute? I call it Henrietta.”

“Oh, look, she names inanimate objects too,” Barbara observed, her mind hard at work trying to calculate a way out of this.

“Mr. J is gonna be _so proud_ of me! All I wanted to do was create a little trouble, a little mayhem, a little confusion, a little pandemonium, a little chaos, a little hoopla, a little… well, anyway, that’s the story of how I flushed out a little bat and birdie. Granted, not the two I initially expected, but you’ll do! After all, what better way to keep the police running in circles but with the double homicide of a pair of pesky pipsqueaks playacting as… is there a synonym for ‘hero’ that starts with a P? Shoot, and I was on such a good streak.”

Time. Barbara needed to buy time. “So let me get this straight. You’re the one who—”

“Sorry, B-girl. That doesn’t work on me.” She cocked the gun.

“The Joker is a two-bit villain who couldn’t make a hyena laugh!”

Barbara’s outburst, though she was never able to say quite where it came from, had precisely the intended effect. As Harley wheeled to level the gun at her, Bette pounced. The two fell to the floor. Barbara stepped on Harley’s wrist and ground her heel down until she released the gun.

“Oy. And I said I wasn’t gonna fall for that one again,” Harley groused. “Well. That was a nice little diversion, girlies, but I’m not having fun anymore. I’d like to stay and chat about how you figured out my plan so quickly, but you don’t look like you have much of a sense of humor. Especially you.”

Barbara realized too late that Harley had managed to pluck a smoke bomb out of her belt by the tips of her fingers. She had just enough presence of mind to dive on the gun, determined to keep it away from Harley at all costs, before her vision and lungs were both filled with smoke.

She heard a shout and several loud crashes. She reached out, her other senses so overwhelmed that touch was the only hope she had of finding anything.

Her hand met someone else’s. It was Bette’s.

“I’m here!” Bette called, coughing and choking on the smoke. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Or, I will be. We need to get out of here.”

“No kidding!”

With difficulty, they made it out of the office and the cloud of smoke. Barbara still held onto Harley’s gun with her free hand, not willing to let go of it without being sure they were safe.

“She got away,” Bette said, tears streaming from her red eyes.

“Let’s get out of here. The police are probably on their way, and even if they’re not—”

“Right. Say, have you always had two heads?”

* * *

**02:40 EST**

It took them longer than they’d intended to get back to Barbara’s house. As it turned out, there had been more than smoke in that smoke bomb. They found a quiet, dark, secluded place—Barbara was so out of it she was never able to say afterwards exactly where—to sit down and breathe and clear their heads.

It was nearly three by the time Bette dropped her off. “Barbara. Do you mind if… I stay the night with you?”

Barbara blinked. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“My parents are in Cabos. I’d only be going home to an empty house.”

“Oh.” That seemed like the only thing to say. “Well. Yeah, sure, of course. Come on.”

Even though they were both feeling a lot more steady than they had been just a little while before, she didn’t trust either of them to make the climb to her bedroom window. A part of her was too tired to care about taking precautions anyway. After they had stored the black Vespa safely in the garage, she unlocked the front door and went inside.

A light snapped on. Her father was sitting on the couch. Barbara was utterly unsurprised to see him there, and he seemed equally as blasé about his daughter and her friend coming home at three in the morning dressed in superhero costumes and looking a little baked.

“Hello, Babs. Bette, good to see you again.”

“Oh, crap,” said Bette. “Are we about to get arrested? Spending Christmas in jail sounds super bogus.”

Jim Gordon stood, raising an eyebrow.

“Harley Quinn,” said Barbara, helping Bette over to the couch before collapsing on it herself. “Smoke bombs. Here’s her gun.” She handed it over unceremoniously, glad to be rid of it.

Jim pursed his lips. “I hope you don’t think being high is going to get you out of having this talk.”

“Frankly I’d have been surprised if you’d considered that a valid excuse. I should have known not to trust TV. Of course you wouldn’t fall for pillows under blankets.” She was rambling, she was aware, but the whole moment felt so surreal, and not just because of the after-effects of the smoke. She pulled off her cowl and tried to remind herself that she was still Barbara Gordon.

“Babs, I’ve known from the start you were Batgirl,” Jim told her.

Barbara blinked. “Huh?”

“It’s kind of my job to notice these things. You think it slipped by me that you disappeared for a night right when this Batgirl first appeared to go after the one criminal I was having the most trouble with, and then you showed up the next morning looking like you’d fallen hands-first through a window? You don’t think much of me, do you?”

Barbara put her head in her hands. Of course she had no hope of getting it past her father. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I knew that you were already aware of how I’d feel about you doing this, but you did it anyway. I knew that if I said anything, it wouldn’t stop you. And I knew that the more people who knew… the truth, the greater danger you’d be in. I hoped you would see reason and give up on your own.”

“So what changed your mind?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been waiting down here every night you’ve gone out. This is just the first time you came in through the front door.”

“I did it for you, you know.”

“I gathered that was probably your misguided motive.” He sat down on the couch next to her. “I want all the details. Now.”

And so Barbara told him everything, holding nothing back, not even how she had gotten the files off of his computer using his account information. She told him about what happened in the warehouse, about Bette wanting to join up, about the ambush at Pye’s, about their meeting with Harley just hours before.

“Harley Quinn.” Jim rubbed his forehead like he was getting a headache.

“She said something about making the Joker proud, and wanting to keep the police running in circles. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like she had anything else in mind besides creating confusion.”

“I’d like to believe that’s true, but my instincts tell me it’s not.”

“She also said…” Barbara frowned, an idea occurring to her. “She wanted to know how we figured out the plan so quickly. But Batgirl didn’t first appear for weeks after the bank robbery. Do you think… she thought I was the one who planted the evidence on Brown that led to his arrest initially?”

Jim shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in that brain of Harley’s? Maybe that’s the case. Maybe it’s not.”

“I don’t think Harley was the one who planted that evidence,” Barbara said, not realizing how certain she was until she said it out loud. “And I don’t think she was the one who threw the bricks at Pye’s either.”

“Batman?” Bette suggested again.

“Still not Batman.”

“Well. That’s something to think about later,” Jim said pragmatically. “You two need sleep. Barbara… is there any chance I can convince you to stop this? It’s dangerous, and not exactly legal…”

“Would you arrest me?”

Jim hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “Yes. Just like I would Batman if I ever thought he was a danger.”

“I’m not a danger. And… I’m not going to stop.”

“I didn’t think you would.” He sighed heavily. “I can’t help you, you know. And I’m going to change my password at work. And you’re turning my hair gray.”

“That’s a daughter’s job,” Barbara told him. “I’m not going to pretend there aren’t dangers, but… I’ve got a pretty solid partner on my side.”

“Oh, Commissioner Gordon, when did you get here?” Bette asked.

“I… don’t think the smoke is quite out of her system. She inhaled more than I did,” Barbara said. “You can feel free to ignore that.”

“I don’t like this, Babs. Just so you know that. I don’t like this at all. If it weren’t for Batman, I wouldn’t… let’s just say the only way I can think of to stop you is to permanently lock you in your room, and that would be less of a hyperbole if it weren’t for Batman.”

“Batman? What’s he got to do with it?”

He smiled a small half-smile. “He’s got your back.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Trust me, Babs. I have no doubt that if you ever truly needed him, he would be there. Now, come on. Let’s get you two to bed. I got a phone call from Bruce Wayne about Christmas dinner and I can’t take my daughter to Wayne Manor when she’s still toasted.”

While she slept, Barbara had the most bizarre dreams she could ever remember having in her life, but she woke up feeling more rested than she had been in months.


End file.
